


The Migraine

by teyla



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Gen, General, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-23
Updated: 2007-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 15:08:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teyla/pseuds/teyla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wilson has a migraine. House tries to help. Mayhem ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Migraine

**Author's Note:**

> **Beta**: Housepiglet

House was woken by retching sounds coming from the bathroom. He opened his eyes and turned his head to see that the other half of the bed was empty, the blankets screwed up at the foot of the bed. For a moment he didn't move, but just listened to the sounds from the bathroom. Then he let out a sigh and awkwardly climbed out of bed, wincing as his leg reminded him that his last Vicodin was more than six hours ago. He remedied that situation, grabbed his cane and made his way to the bathroom.

He stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane and frowning at the picture that presented itself. Wilson, wearing only a t-shirt and shorts, was kneeling in front of the toilet, for now not throwing up anymore but leaning his forehead on his palm, his elbows resting on the toilet seat. His shoulders were trembling.

"What's up?" House asked.

Wilson didn't move. "Sky," he said in a hoarse voice.

House rolled his eyes and limped across the room to stand beside Wilson. "Migraine?" he asked. Wilson gave an almost imperceptible nod. House puffed a short breath out of his nose and said nothing for a moment. He'd been expecting something like this. Over the last few weeks Wilson had been pushing himself past his limits, taking on too many cases, spending too many nights holed up in his office, agonizing over the annual performance reviews of his staff and other mindless, time-consuming paperwork. _Always the hypocrite_, thought House. _Lecturing me about my Vicodin habit and working himself to death at the same time._

He reached out and put a hand on Wilson's shoulder, feeling the coolness of the sweat-soaked t-shirt under his fingers. "Can you get up?" he asked.

Without raising his head, Wilson began to slowly push himself to his feet, holding onto the wall for support, his eyes screwed tightly shut. When he'd finally straightened up he let go of the wall to turn around, and promptly stumbled. House quickly reached out to grab his arm, and only the cane kept him from losing his balance. He pressed his lips together as his leg protested against the weight he was putting on it. "Watch it, big fella," he said. "Don't rely on me to catch you."

"Sorry," Wilson mumbled, and House had to keep himself from slapping him upside the head.

"Don't apologize, idiot," he said. "Get yourself back to the bedroom."

Slowly, awkwardly, Wilson made his way back to the bedroom and all but crumpled onto the bed, curling up without even bothering to draw up the blankets. House did it for him instead, and then went back into the bathroom to flush the toilet and get Wilson two Excedrin and a glass of water. When he'd made sure that Wilson had swallowed both pills and drunk all the water he went into the living room to call Cuddy, and let her know that neither he nor Wilson would be in today.

\--------

House was sitting on his couch and watching a late afternoon soap. He was only listening to it with half an ear, though. Most of his attention was focused on listening for any sounds from the bedroom at the end of the hall. When he heard the sound of unsteady footsteps, he looked up immediately.

Wilson had spent the whole day curled up in bed with the curtains drawn to keep out the bright sunlight. The migraine, even though it had been temporarily hampered by several dosages of Excedrin, had not relented. Around twelve they had run out of the good stuff, and House had dug up some acetaminophen and had fed it to Wilson with almost ridiculously huge amounts of coffee. He'd even offered to share his Vicodin, but Wilson had balked at the idea. He'd also refused to take any more than the recommended dosage of acetaminophen. House had called him an idiotic moron, but Wilson had only closed his eyes and dismissed him. House, not knowing what else he could do, had gone into the living room and pretended to sulk. It wasn't any fun, though, since Wilson was obviously too distracted by his headache to care.

Or maybe not. House kept his eyes on the bedroom door, and it wasn't long before Wilson emerged, wearing a pair of loose sweats and one of House's t-shirts. His hair was mussed in uncharacteristic contrast to his usual meticulously blow-dried hairdo, and House thought that sleepy Wilson looked pretty damn sexy. The only drawback was Wilson's scrunched up eyes and the pain-filled expression on his pale face.

Wilson padded down the hallway, trailing one hand along the wall for support. Without taking his eyes off him House turned off the TV, and he waited until Wilson had awkwardly lowered himself down onto the couch before he spoke up.

"What's with the zombie act?" he asked. "Got bored suffering in there without anybody to hold your hand?"

Wilson licked his lips and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. "I should eat something," he said.

House raised an eyebrow. "You're not nauseous anymore?" Wilson hadn't said anything about it, but House knew that his stomach had been bothering him all day. He'd also thrown up a couple more times, which might have been one of the reasons the pills hadn't taken.

Wilson was silent for a moment before he answered. "I haven't eaten all day," he said.

House rolled his eyes. "You've been _sick_ all day." He watched Wilson closely and saw his expression change from pain to resignation through exhaustion and back to pain.

"I should eat something," Wilson simply repeated. House looked at him for another moment, and then shook his head and levered himself to his feet.

"I can offer you chicken noodle soup or Kraft dinner. I used up the last of the peanut butter earlier."

"No cheese," Wilson said with a slight frown, and House pulled up one corner of his mouth in a lop-sided smirk.

"Soup then," he said. Just when he was about to turn away, Wilson opened his eyes.

"Thanks," he said. House raised an eyebrow.

"Don't mention it," he replied, starting in the direction of the kitchen. "To anyone."

He heated up the last can of chicken soup, making a mental note to call Cameron and make her get him some more from the store tomorrow. As he sorted through the kitchen cupboards, he spotted a box of tea bags behind a congregation of Wilson's health food ingredients. After a moment's consideration, he took it out and turned on the electric kettle. If he was ruining his reputation as an uncaring bastard, he might as well do it right.

Soon the smell of chicken soup and strong tea filled the kitchen and reminded House that he hadn't had dinner yet, either. So he filled two bowls with steaming soup and carried them into the living room, before he went back to get the tea and some spoons. He dropped onto the couch next to Wilson and handed him one of the spoons. "Eat," he said, he said, but he had a sudden change of heart and snatched the spoon back as Wilson reached for it. Wilson gave him a pained look, and House raised an eyebrow.

"You gonna puke if you eat that?" he asked, and Wilson's expression changed to mild surprise. He gave the bowl of soup an appraising glance before looking back at House with a slightly apologetic expression. House rolled his eyes and got up again, limping over to the closet and returning a moment later with a cleaning bucket.

"Don't get anything on the carpet," he said as he sat back down. Wilson gave a small, lop-sided smile.

"I'll try not to."

Silently, they began to eat their dinner. House leafed through a journal and pretended not to notice the way Wilson's hands shook when he lifted the spoon to his mouth. He couldn't help but acknowledge a small twinge of worry, though. Wilson's migraine attacks were few and far between; he usually only got them when he was under a lot of physical or mental stress. As a rule, they hit every five or six months and never went on longer than six, maybe seven hours. It was almost ten hours ago that House had found Wilson in the bathroom, and from the careful and awkward way Wilson was moving it didn't seem like the headache would be relenting any time soon.

There was nothing else that they could do about it, though, so House just kept reading his journal and watching Wilson from the corner of his eye. Unsurprisingly, Wilson didn't even make it through half the bowl before he put it down on the coffee table and rested his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees.

"This was a bad idea," he said, and his Adam's apple bounced as he swallowed convulsively. House lowered the journal and kept a wary eye on Wilson, expecting him to reach for the bucket any second. He didn't move, though, only swallowed a couple more times and then began to take slow, deep breaths. House let his shoulders sag a little.

"It was _your_ bad idea," he said. When Wilson didn't react, House sighed and flicked the journal onto the coffee table. "C'mere," he said, extra gruffness in his voice concealing the fact that he was feeling a little insecure about what he was going to do.

Wilson slowly raised his head and squinted at him. "What?"

House turned around so he was half-leaning against the couch's armrest, his right leg resting on the seat, and gestured for Wilson to come closer. "Come on," he said again.

Wilson squinted at him for a few moments with bleary eyes, then shuffled closer and stretched out on the couch, resting his head against House's chest.

House shifted a little to properly distribute the weight and then reached for his journal. The weight of Wilson resting against his upper body actually didn't feel as uncomfortable as he had imagined, and judging from the slightly more relaxed expression on Wilson's face, the physical contact seemed to be helping at least a little. Careful not to move too much, House went back to reading the article about Malaria immunity in sickle-cell patients.

When ten minutes later he realized that he had begun to gently run his fingers through Wilson's thick chestnut-colored strands, he hesitated for a brief moment, but then he shrugged inwardly and filed it among the things nobody but Wilson needed to know about.

\--------

Two hours later, House decided that he had played the comforting boyfriend for long enough. He wasn't too keen on the idea of waking Wilson up after the man had finally managed to fall asleep about an hour ago, but his leg was very adamantly demanding to be moved, preferably to bed after a good-night dose of the little white pills. House reached down to put a hand on Wilson's shoulder. "Hey," he said. Wilson didn't react, and House tightened his grip a little. "Hey," he repeated. "Wake up."

Wilson gave a low grunt and began to shift around. When he moved his head he groaned, and scrunched up his face. "What?" he slurred, sounding rather irritated. House smirked a little.

"Bedtime, Jimmy," he said. Wilson blinked and gingerly sat up. House shivered as the weight of the warm body was taken off his chest.

"What time is it?" Wilson asked, sleepily squinting at House.

House sat up and hoisted his leg over the edge of the couch, sucking in his lower lip as the stiff muscles protested violently. He dug the Vicodin bottle from his pocket and swallowed one before offering them to Wilson. "Almost eleven," he said.

Wilson frowned at the orange bottle and then looked up to give House a reproachful glare. House shrugged and pocketed the pills. "Masochist."

"Junkie."

House smiled a little and fished for his cane. "I'm going to bed," he said. "You coming?"

"Yeah," Wilson said and got to his feet as well. House kept his eyes on Wilson as he followed him to the bedroom, and thought he seemed to be doing a bit better. His steps were still somewhat unsteady, and he still seemed a little out of it, but his movements weren't as pained as a couple of hours ago. Maybe this headache was finally wearing off.

\--------

House's optimism was proven wrong only three hours later. After taking the Vicodin, he had fallen asleep pretty quickly, but his night's rest was soon interrupted by uneasy rustling from the other side of the bed. He opened his eyes and rolled onto his back.

"You okay?" he asked. The shifting of the blankets stopped.

"Sorry," Wilson said, and House could tell by the tension in his voice that the pain had returned full force. "Didn't mean to wake you."

House let out a sigh and reached out to turn on the bedside lamp, careful to keep the light out of Wilson's face. "Are you okay?" he asked again.

Wilson, who was lying on his back, moved around, obviously trying to find a comfortable position without moving his head too much. "I think I've got a fever," he admitted after a moment.

_Oh hell_. House reached out to put a hand on Wilson's forehead. It felt warm, despite the cool film of sweat House could feel under his fingers. He took Wilson's pulse and found it going a lot faster than usual. He let his hand fall away from Wilson's wrist and looked up at the other man's face. It looked pinched and miserable in the dim light of the bedside lamp. As their eyes met, House felt a rather unfamiliar twinge of sympathy in his chest.

"Why won't it go away?" Wilson asked in a quiet voice. "It's been at least twice as long as usual."

House lowered his eyes and shrugged. "It's what you get for being an incurable workaholic," he said, trying for his most unemotional tone.

Wilson closed his eyes. "Yeah," he said. "All my fault. Thanks, House."

A short moment of silence followed, and then House let out a huff and shoved his blankets aside.

"What are you doing?" Wilson asked as House picked up his cane and began to fish for his clothes that he'd carelessly dumped over the arm of a chair.

"I'm gonna score some shit for you, dude," he said.

"What?"

House rolled his eyes. "I'm driving to the hospital to get you some drugs that'll work," he said. "Where are your car keys?"

"Pants pocket. House, it's the middle of the night. The pharmacy's closed."

"I'll find someone with a key," House said, shrugging into his shirt. He heard Wilson draw in a breath.

"House, I appreciate the thought, I really do, but you can't break into the hospital's pharmacy."

"I said I'll find someone with a key. The nightguy has one. He can let me in."

"Why would he do that?"

House rolled his eyes and got to his feet and then turned round to look at Wilson. "I know you have difficulty believing it, but I am, in fact, a doctor. I can write prescriptions."

"But you can't pick them up yourself. Not if it's not for one of your patients."

At Wilson's words, House bounced his cane on the floor in exasperation. "I'll get the on-call guy to pick it up for me. What's the matter with you? Don't you want me to get you drugs?"

Wilson closed his eyes for a moment, and House could tell that he was trying to decide whether his headache was too bad to lecture House not to give in to his criminal tendencies. When Wilson finally settled on nothing more than a quiet "Sorry," House felt his worry deepen. Wilson opened his eyes to look at him.

"What do you want to get?"

"Triptan." House raised an eyebrow. "Which other drug is there?"

Wilson looked at him for a few seconds before he closed his eyes again. "I'm allergic to sumatriptan, House," he said.

House was silent for a moment. Yes, Wilson was allergic to sumatriptan. There was a reason why they didn't have a stock of the stuff stored away in the medicine cabinet. How could he not have thought of that?

"I'll bring an epi pen, then," he said, and Wilson smiled a little.

"I appreciate your enthusiasm, House, but I think I'll pass."

House sighed and dropped Wilson's car keys back onto the pile of clothes. He didn't move for a moment, keeping his head lowered. He could feel a slight ache build up in his own head.

He looked at Wilson and raised a mocking eyebrow. "It's past midnight," he said in a bright tone. "Means you can take some more acetaminophen."

For a moment, Wilson only looked at him, but then he pulled his mouth into a slight smile and nodded. "Thanks, House," he said as House was already halfway out the door.

House hesitated for a moment before he continued down the hallway towards the bathroom. "Yeah," he muttered. "'Cause I'm doing a fat lot of good here."

The medicine cabinet was less of a cabinet and more of a small square willow basket they kept on a shelf in the bathroom. House picked it up and dumped its contents onto the ledge. He stared at the small heap of bottles and boxes for a while. There were a couple of spare Vicodin bottles, the acetaminophen, a box of generic aspirin, House's antihistamines, some Tylenol and a bottle of little yellow homoeopathic quack pills Wilson had contributed to the collection. Frowning, House started sorting through the meds, hoping to find a spare Excedrin or some other anti-migraine drug he'd forgotten they had.

He didn't find anything, though, until he picked up the last of the boxes to put it back into the basket, and stopped in his tracks when his eyes fell on a tiny foil packet that had been hidden beneath it. He put the pills aside and picked it up, turning it in his fingers. He'd completely forgotten that he had this. He didn't even know why he'd kept it and not thrown it out with the rest. Maybe he'd known it would come in useful one of these days.

He shook two white pills out of the acetaminophen bottle and half-filled a glass with water. Then he carefully tore open the small foil packet and tipped its contents into the glass. The clear liquid immediately mingled with the water.

House paused, and for a moment he came close to pouring the glass' contents into the sink and banning every thought of this from his mind. Then he remembered Wilson kneeling in front of the toilet and puking his guts out, and his resolve strengthened. He _knew_ this would work, and any hypothetical risks were mere statistics. He nodded to himself and carried the pills and the water back into the bedroom.

Wilson had curled up on his side with his back to the door. House walked around the bed and put the glass and the pills down on the nightstand. "Hey," he said in a low voice. "Got you your pills."

Wilson looked up and propped himself on one elbow, squinting at the nightstand. "Thanks," he said. House watched him swallow the pills and wash them down with the water. As he put down the glass, Wilson grimaced a little as if he'd tasted something bitter. House took the glass from him and put it aside, making a mental note to rinse it out before anyone used it again. Then he limped back to his own side of the bed, unbuttoning his shirt while he went.

"You need anything else?" he asked. Wilson, who had lain back down and pulled the blankets up, answered in a muffled voice.

"No. Thanks."

House climbed back under the blankets and lay on his back, his mind wide awake. He felt the adrenalin rush he always got when he was treating a patient unconventionally or taking some other kind of risk. This time, though, there was worry mixed with the feeling, as well. He tried to dismiss it, and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. After no more than maybe twenty minutes, he heard Wilson start to shift around on his side of the bed. A couple of minutes later, Wilson spoke up. "House," he said in a low voice. "House, are you awake?"

House raised an eyebrow, even though he knew that Wilson wouldn't see it in the dark. "I am now," he said.

He heard Wilson's blankets rustle again. "House, I don't feel so good."

House lay very still. "It's okay," he said. "Go to sleep."

"Seriously, House," Wilson said. "I feel kinda dizzy."

At the slight touch of panic in Wilson's voice, House's uneasiness intensified. It would so not do for Wilson to freak out now. He reached out to switch on the bedside lamp and turned onto his side.

"Wilson," he said. "Wilson, look at me." Wilson turned his head, and House noticed that his eyes looked a lot darker than usual. He held Wilson's gaze. "It's okay," he said. "You're okay. Just go to sleep."

Wilson blinked a couple of times as if he were trying to clear his vision. "You gave me something," he said. "House, what did you give me?"

House looked at him for another few moments before he turned away and lay back down on his back. "Something to help with the headache," he said. "Now go to sleep."

"Oh no," Wilson said. "You didn't give me acid, did you?" House remained silent, and the agitation in Wilson's voice grew. "You did. Oh boy, you did. House, have you completely lost it?"

House let out an explosive sigh and sat up. "Do you want that migraine to go away or not?" he asked. "LSD is not addictive, and it works. Just relax and enjoy the trip."

He looked at Wilson who was staring back at him with wide eyes. House could see his pupils contracting and dilating quicker than the steady dim light in the room really justified. He reached out to put a hand on Wilson's shoulder. Wilson flinched and shrank away from the touch. House tightened his grip.

"It's okay," he said again. "You're okay. Everything's fine. Just relax." He could see, though, that Wilson wasn't taking in any of what he was saying. He was staring at something just above House's shoulder and his lips were moving, but he wasn't making any sound. The expression on his face was terrified.

House swore silently under his breath. During the wilder of his college days he'd had a couple of bad trips on acid, and he knew that it was nothing to joke about. Trust Wilson to freak out about this enough to push himself right into a horror trip.

He leaned over and snapped his fingers in front of Wilson's face until Wilson's eyes stopped flitting back and forth and focused on him. "Hey," House said. "Listen. You're okay. You're just hallucinating. It's not real. Just relax, it'll go away."

Wilson stared at him, and House could see that little or nothing of what he'd said had gotten through. Suddenly, Wilson began to blink rapidly and then raised his arms in a protective gesture over his head. "Stop that," he said. "Don't do that, please."

House reached out to take Wilson's wrists and pulled his hands away from his face. When he spoke, he tried for his most reassuring tone. "I'm not doing anything," he said. "It's not real. You're fine. Just relax, okay?"

Wilson didn't answer, and House wasn't sure if he'd even heard him. Wilson was staring into the empty space just above House's head, his expression petrified. A thin film of sweat was building up on his brow.

House sighed again. "Oh, for God's sake." He shuffled closer to Wilson and put an arm around his shoulders, pulling him closer. "It's not real, Jimmy," he said. "You're hallucinating. Don't let it scare you. You're okay."

Wilson's breath was going fast, and he was trembling a little. "Don't go away," he said in a low, scared whisper, and he clutched a fistful of House's shirt in his hand. "Don't leave."

House sighed again and turned his eyes to the ceiling. "Not going anywhere, Jimmy," he said.

He could have kicked himself. This was James Wilson, boy wonder oncologist who didn't even nick a joint for himself if he had a bunch of them lying on his desk. How could House not have realized that the only reaction Wilson would ever have to a psychedelic acid trip was terror? He tightened his arms around Wilson's shoulders. "Fucking wimp," he muttered.

They sat like that for a while, Wilson with his face buried in House's shoulder. House didn't know what Wilson was seeing behind his closed eyelids but it couldn't have been anything good, because, despite House's constant muttered reassurances, the trembling of Wilson's shoulders wouldn't cease.

After a while, House began to feel the exhaustion of the day catch up with him. This morning, Wilson had woken him about two hours before he usually started his day, and a glance to the alarm clock on the night stand told him it was already well past midnight. He leaned his head back against the wall above the bed and wearily closed his eyes, absentmindedly moving his hand on Wilson's shoulder in what he hoped were reassuring strokes.

He hadn't realized that he'd fallen asleep until he was suddenly jerked awake by violent movement beside him. He quickly disentangled himself from Wilson in order to avoid getting an eye poked out.

Wilson, eyes wide and dark with panic, was pulling back, making frantic warding-off gestures towards the air above his head. "Get away from me!" he yelled. "Leave me alone!"

After he'd regained his bearings, House reached out to catch Wilson's flailing hands. "Calm down, Wilson!" he said sharply. "It's not real. It won't hurt you."

Wilson, however, didn't even acknowledge him. He struggled against House's grip and tried to squirm deeper underneath the blankets. "They're everywhere," he breathed, eyes flitting back and forth. "Can't you see them? We need to get out of here!"

"Yeah, we need to get out of Bat Country," House said. "Wilson, stop it. There's nothing here. No bats and nothing else. You're safe."

Wilson wasn't listening, though. He was squirming and breathing fast, trying to twist his hands out of House's grip. "Let me go! We need to get out of here!"

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" House let go of Wilson, and the other man immediately flung his arms over his head in a protective gesture and slid further under the blankets. House looked at him for another few moments, then sighed in exasperation and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. "You're doing this on purpose, aren't you," he accused as he reached for his cane. "You know how small the chances are of a first acid trip being a horror trip?"

Wilson, of course, didn't answer; he probably hadn't even heard him since he'd buried his head under the pillows.

House shook his head and got to his feet, making his way into the living room. Every step was accompanied by a wince as his thigh protested against the use at such an unfamiliar hour. He frowned and his annoyance grew, blotting out the slight guilt that had begun to form at the back of his mind. This was all Wilson's fault. All work and no play not only made Wilson sick, but also made for sleepless nights on House's part. Wilson knew what he had to expect from House when he pushed his body into reminding him that he wasn't Superman.

House dropped onto the couch and fished in the gap between the seat and the backrest for the phone he knew he'd left there that morning after calling in sick. When he'd extricated it from the couch's grip, he dialed Cuddy's cell number.

She picked up after five rings, answering in a thick, sleepy voice. "Yes?"

"Hey, Cuddy!" House said in his most cheerful tone, and could almost hear Cuddy's eyes close in resigned annoyance.

"House," she said, sounding less than happy. "What do you want?"

"Need your help."

Now Cuddy sounded wary. "With what? House, what did you do?"

"Nothing," House said quickly. "Nothing I didn't do with the best intentions, anyway."

"House?" Cuddy sounded almost panicky now. "What did you do?" She paused. "Is Wilson okay?" she asked then.

"Depends on your definition of okay," House said, enjoying the opportunity to torture Cuddy while it lasted.

"House!"

"He's fine," House relented. "In every physical sense of the word."

There was a pause at the other end of the line. "Okay, so what do you need my help for?" She was back to wary.

House smirked. "I need you to get me drugs," he said. "Benzos, to be precise."

Silence. Then, a horrified squeak. "House! You- you didn't. . . you didn't!"

At her aghast reaction, House felt both very amused and the tiniest bit guilty. "He wouldn't let me sleep!" he said. "And I'd tried just about everything short of cutting his head off."

"He consented?"

Judging from her tone, that idea was enough to shatter Cuddy's worldview. For a moment, House was tempted to lie, just to screw with her head. But then he settled for, "Well, he didn't _protest_ when I gave it to him."

"Because you didn't tell him what it was." Cuddy let out an exasperated sigh. "House, I should report this as a case of spousal abuse."

"I'm not abusing him!" House sputtered. "He's abusing _me_! All that moaning and groaning and throwing up all the time. I didn't get any real sleep all night!"

"House, you never cease to amaze me. Every time I think I've seen the height of your egoism, you pull something else out of your hat."

House smirked. "I aim to please."

"Right." Cuddy sighed again. "Well then, just let him enjoy the fun while it lasts. He won't have to come in tomorrow."

"Yeah, well, that's just it," House said. "He's not enjoying it."

"What? House! What did you do to him?"

"Nothing! He managed to freak out all by himself. That's why I need the benzos."

"And where do you suggest I should get benzos at--three o'clock in the morning?"

Cuddy was back to outraged. House rolled his eyes. "You know," he said, "there's this facility you work at. Was it a match head painting factory or a hospital?"

"Right." Cuddy's voice was oozing sarcasm. "So I just walk in there, break into the pharmacy, raid the benzos shelf and walk out as if I owned the whole thing?"

"Duh. Or you could go to one of the wards and just get it from their meds cabinet. Geriatrics gives out benzos like candy every night."

When he heard the tone of her voice, House could almost see the frown on Cuddy's face. "Really?"

"Really. Are you going to get me some, or do I have to call Cameron?"

"I thought stealing drugs was more Foreman's field of expertise. Or yours."

"I'm not available for mischief tonight," House said. "Too little sleep."

Cuddy sighed again. "Alright, House." She paused, then muttered, "I can't believe he's making me do this," before she hung up.

House smirked and stuck the phone back into the couch gap before he got up to go back into the bedroom. "Hey, Wilson," he said. "I set Cuddy up to get you more drugs." He entered the bedroom, frowning when he didn't get any reaction at all. "Wilson?"

Wilson's head was still buried under the pillows, and he was lying completely still. A twinge of slight panic surged through House, and he crossed the room as quickly as he could manage.

"Wilson!" He pulled aside the pillows and found Wilson's anxious face staring straight back at him.

"Are they gone?" Wilson whispered.

House let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding and dropped the pillow back onto the bed. "You're an idiot," he said, but even to himself his voice sounded more relieved than anything else. Wilson curled up and slid further under the blankets, while House walked around to his side of the bed to find his pants. "Cuddy will be here in about half an hour," he said. "Try not to have a heart attack before then."

"Cuddy?" Wilson repeated. "Cuddy's not here."

House rolled his eyes. "Duh," he said, but Wilson only turned his head to stare at the ceiling.

"I'm not here, either," he said in a wondrous tone. House frowned and shook his head.

"Shut up, Wilson."

Wilson only let out a small scared whimper and pulled the blanket over his face. House looked at the trembling heap of bedding, again feeling a small twinge of guilt in his stomach, and hoped that Cuddy would hurry up.

She did. There was a knock on the door barely twenty minutes later. House, who had been sitting next to Wilson on the bed, trying not to nod off, climbed out of bed and hobbled down the hallway to the door.

"Who's there?" he called, simply to annoy Cuddy.

There was an angry bump against the door. "Let me in, House," he heard Cuddy hiss in a subdued tone. Smirking, he unlocked the door and opened up.

"Oh, it's Mother Theresa with the free antibiotics," he mocked. Cuddy glared and pushed past him.

"I'm amazed your neighbors haven't ganged up on you and thrown you out of here yet," she said.

House grinned and closed the door. "I'm a doctor. And a cripple. My neighbors love me."

"Right."

For a moment she just stood there, clutching her purse in a way that positively screamed possession of illegal substances, and didn't quite seem to know what to do with herself. House, growing impatient, held out a hand. "Well? Did you get them?"

She turned a disapproving look on him. "Where's Wilson?" she asked. "Is he okay?"

"Wilson's just peachy. Now give me the drugs." House made a demanding gesture with his hand and answered Cuddy's glare with one of his own. He could see that she was more than reluctant to hand over the pills; that she needed to make sure that this was still just House and hadn't crossed the border into dangerous madness. House held her gaze with a piercing look. "Give," he said and after another moment, Cuddy did an unhappy eyeroll and dug a box of pills from her purse.

"There," she said. "Nicked from geriatrics. They had two boxes more than allowed, anyway."

"Told you," said House, snatching the benzos from her. "I bet the nurses pass the pill box round before they go home in the evening."

Cuddy didn't answer, only looked at him, her expression stating clearly that she so did not trust him in this. House knew, though, that she'd let him have his way. People always did. Except Wilson.

"Will you two be okay?" she asked finally, and House nodded.

"I'll have him back in his office the day after tomorrow," he said. "Call Cameron. She was supposed to have the day off tomorrow. Tell her Wilson will cover for her next week in return."

Cuddy rolled her eyes. "Right. House, the master of delegation." She snapped the clasps of her purse closed and sighed. "_Call_ me when you need. . . help with anything, okay?" she said, fixing him with an intense stare. House nodded.

"I will. I did this time, didn't I?"

Cuddy raised an eyebrow, then nodded and walked past him and out the door.

For a moment House just stood there, turning the pill box in his fingers. He was still wondering how to go about the business when he heard a yell of shocked surprise from the bedroom. He sighed and pocketed the benzos before he hobbled back to Wilson.

He raised an eyebrow at what he saw. Wilson had obviously jumped out of bed, and had gotten his feet tangled in the blanket in the process. He was currently sitting on the floor, wrestling with the clingy fabric with a panic-stricken expression on his face. "Let go of me," he shouted. "Leave me alone!" He kicked his foot, and House winced as Wilson's toes made hard contact with the side of the bed frame.

"Hey," he called out and crossed the room. "Wilson. Calm down. You'll hurt yourself."

Wilson turned a pair of terrified eyes on him and tried to scramble backwards, away from him. "No," he breathed. "Not you. I didn't do anything. Leave me alone."

House stopped and flexed his hand around the handle of his cane. "Wilson," he said. "It's me, House. You remember? The guy you live with?"

"You're not. You killed him!" Wilson raised his arms in a protective gesture, and House was dismayed to see his wide eyes filling up with tears. "You killed him, and now you're going to kill me."

For a moment, House could only stare at the huddled figure of Wilson cowering against the bedroom wall; then he ran a hand over his face and sighed, before he awkwardly squatted down so he was on eye-level with Wilson. "Wilson," he said sternly. "Jimmy. _James_. Calm down. I'm not going to kill you. No one's trying to hurt you."

Wilson, however, only shook his head and pressed himself harder against the wall. "No," he whispered in a quivery voice. "No, no. Please."

"Oh, for- " House let his shoulders sag a little and sighed again, wishing he'd made Cuddy get him a loaded syringe instead of pills. "Wilson," he said and pulled the pills from his pockets. "I've got something here that'll make you feel better. Will you take a couple of these? Wilson?"

"Poison," Wilson whispered. "It's poison. You're trying to poison me."

House shook his head, never taking his eyes off the other man. "No, Wilson," he said. "I'm not trying to poison you. This will make you feel better."

Wilson only shook his head and merged further back into the wall, if that was even possible.

House sighed and sat back, considering his options. He could call Cuddy again, but she wouldn't be able to get hold of a benzos injection as easily as the pills. It would also take her at least another one, maybe two hours, and success wasn't guaranteed.

On the other hand, he could just forget about the benzos and wait for the acid to leave Wilson's system of its own accord. But beside the fact that that would probably mean no more sleep for anybody that night, he didn't really like the thought of Wilson huddled scared and shivering in the bedroom corner for hours.

Well, that really only left one option. House hesitated for a short moment, then came to a decision and fumbled the benzos box open, thumbing one small white pill into his palm. Then he raised his eyes to look at Wilson. "I'm sorry about this, Jimmy," he said, then quickly lounged forward and grabbed both Wilson's wrists with his free hand.

The leg had slowed him down a bit, but Wilson had obviously not expected this, and so House managed to wrestle him into immobility before Wilson had much of a chance to react.

"No! Stop it! Leave me alone!"

For the first time in his life, House winced in sympathy for his neighbors. "It's okay, Wilson!" he said loudly to make himself heard over all the racket. "You're okay. Just relax!"

"No! Let me go!"

House didn't waste any more time. As Wilson opened his mouth to yell, House quickly slapped his hand over Wilson's lips, flicking the pill into Wilson's mouth, and then pressing his hand over Wilson's mouth and nose until he saw Wilson's Adam's apple bounce as he swallowed convulsively.

He let go of Wilson, pulling his hands back and quickly getting out of the way as Wilson immediately began to flail. "No," Wilson yelled, scrunching his eyes shut. "Get away from me! Leave me alone!"

House quickly reached out to catch the banjo Wilson had knocked off-balance before it could crash to the floor. "It's okay, Jimmy," he said, biting his lip as the muscles in his leg suddenly began to spasm, protesting against the strain that was being put upon them. "You're okay. Just calm down."

Surprisingly, Wilson did. From one moment to the next he stopped flailing and huddled back up against the wall, wrapping his arms around his knees, his breathing going hard and his body shaking like a leaf. House watched him tensely, not moving, staying where he was sitting on the floor beside the bed. It was maybe ten minutes until the trembling of Wilson's shoulders subsided and the grip of his arms around his knees loosened. House continued to watch him, and before long he could see Wilson's eyes beginning to droop.

The feeling of relief that sight triggered in him was more profound than he liked to acknowledge. He pushed himself off the side of the bed and scrambled to his knees. "Wilson," he said and reached out to touch the other man's shoulder. "C'mon Wilson, let's get you back to bed."

Wilson, whose eyes had closed by now, only gave an unwilling grunt, his head sinking to the side against the wall. House let out a sharp breath. "Wilson. Hey, Mr. Oncologist. Come on. I can't get you back in bed without your help."

Wilson didn't react, and from the way his breathing had slowed down and grown very regular, House suspected that he was as good as asleep. He sat back a little, pausing for a moment before he shook his head and reached for his cane, awkwardly getting to his feet. He grabbed Wilson's pillow and blanket from the bed and, ignoring the slightly indignant grunts, pushed and poked the other man until Wilson was lying on his side, his head resting on the pillow. House spread the blanket over him, grateful that Wilson was at least lying on the bedside rug instead of the blank wooden floor.

House straightened up and stood, gritting his teeth and cursing silently as the muscles in his leg cramped again. He held onto the wall until he was sure the leg would support his weight and then limped around the bed to get the pills that were sitting on his night stand.

He propped the cane against the wall and dropped down on his side of the bed. With a sigh, he rested his elbows on his knees and rubbed his hands over his face. _You idiot_, he thought. _You complete and utter moron. Slipping people acid without forewarning them. You're getting old._

He was. During his college days, one of his top ten acid rules had been never to force a trip onto somebody else. LSD was one of the strongest hallucinogens there were, and the things it made you see could be scary as hell if you weren't prepared. People did the most idiotic things on acid, especially when they had no idea what was going on. Jumping an experience like that onto someone who was already exhausted from trying to fight off a killer headache for the last twelve hours was more than irresponsible. It was dangerously stupid.

House lay down on his back and stared at the ceiling for a few moments, listening to the quiet breathing that was coming from somewhere behind him. After a while, he turned around on his stomach to be able to see Wilson as well as hear him. Wilson was lying with his back against the wall, his hair mussed, and despite the fact that he was asleep, the expression on his face looked as exhausted as House had ever seen it. The guilty feeling in House's stomach twisted a little, and he dropped his face into the mattress.

Great. Now that Wilson had finally shut up and gone to sleep, House had a feeling that sleep wouldn't come to him any time soon. He slid underneath his blanket anyway, hoping that maybe the exhaustion of the day, or possibly the hydrocodone, would catch up with him.

Somehow he couldn't get comfortable, though. He wasn't quite sure what was wrong until he rolled over once more and realized that the bed simply felt too empty. Not that Wilson was always next to him when he fell asleep; Wilson was frequently away at some conference or other, or some kind of emergency, or his paperwork kept him in the hospital for long hours into the night.

On those occasions, House had no trouble falling asleep at all. This, however, was different; knowing that Wilson was curled up on the hard wooden floor, ruining his back, instead of sleeping in his accustomed place in the bed made for a very uncomfortable emptiness beside House.

After he didn't know how many minutes of tossing and turning and not falling asleep, House let out a sigh and sat up. He turned on the bedside lamp and morosely stared at the heap of blankets in the corner that was Wilson. After a few moments he shook his head in defeat and muttered, "Screw this." He grabbed his pillow and the blanket and got up to limp around the bed to the other side. As an afterthought, he snatched his pills from his nightstand and stuffed them into his pocket.

He dumped his bedding next to Wilson on the floor and awkwardly lay down beside the other man. He pummeled his pillow until it supported his head and then edged as close to Wilson as he could, throwing an arm over the other man. Wilson didn't give the slightest indication that he was aware of House's presence, though.

"There," House muttered, shifting around until he'd found a more or less comfortable position on the carpeted floor. "Maybe I can get some sleep now."

Despite the way the floor was pressing against his hipbone and the way his leg protested against his every move, the warmth of another body so close to his own soon made him feel drowsy, and it wasn't long before House had drifted off, as well.

\--------

House felt movement beside him and opened his eyes. He'd been more or less awake for some time, his leg having woken him up a couple of hours ago, and the throbbing pain hadn't really relented even after he'd taken his morning pill. He knew he was paying for spending the night on the bedroom floor.

He hadn't tried to get up, but had kept his eyes closed, letting himself drift in and out of wakefulness. When he finally felt Wilson stir beside him, he turned his head and saw a tousled head emerge from underneath the blanket.

"Mornin'," he said. Wilson grunted; then groaned and turned around to squint at House.

"House?" Wilson's voice was thick and husky with sleep. "What's going on?"

"Depends," House said. "How are you feeling?"

Wilson lay back down on the pillow and stared at the ceiling for a moment. "My head is killing me," he said then.

"You can't _still_ have that migraine!" House said, and Wilson winced at his loud voice.

"Not a migraine," he said. There was a stretch of silence before Wilson spoke up again. "House," he said, "you are an utter ass. I really don't know why I put up with you." His tone was rather serious, and House felt a small twinge of remorse before the usual cynicism took over. He turned his head and gave Wilson a saccharine smile.

"Because you just love me that much," he said. Wilson only turned his head and glared; then he shoved the blanket aside and awkwardly got to his feet. For a moment he looked as if he were going to say something, but then only shook his head and rubbed a hand over his face.

"I'm gonna take a shower," he said, and left without another look.

House sighed and considered getting up as well--he'd certainly like to, the floor hadn't gotten any more comfortable over night--but as he moved his right leg, a sharp stab of pain convinced him to stay where he was for the moment.

He listened to the sounds that were coming from the bathroom; the toilet flushing, the tap being turned on and off, and finally the sound of water pouring from the shower. That one didn't stop for at least fifteen minutes, about twice as long as Wilson's showers usually took. It wasn't followed by the hum of the blow-dryer, either. Instead, House heard the click of the bathroom door, and a moment later, Wilson entered the room, a towel wrapped around his waist, his hair damp and hanging into his eyes. From the expression on his face, the shower hadn't mellowed his mood as House had silently hoped it would.

Wilson crossed the room and opened the closet, pulling out a pair of sweats and one of his t-shirts. He put them on, seemingly oblivious to House's eyes on him before he threw the discarded towel over a chair and turned around.

"You gonna stay there all day?" he asked.

House shrugged. "I like it here. It's cozy."

Wilson glared at him for another moment before he shook his head and rolled his eyes at House. "You're an idiot," he said. "Why did you sleep on the goddamn floor anyway?"

For a moment House was a little confused to find himself on the wrong end of the berating, but then he only shrugged again. He knew that Wilson was seeing right through his act of indifference, but that was no reason to admit that Wilson was right. "You wouldn't let me move you to the bed," he said.

"Right." Wilson scoffed. "And that's a reason how, exactly?"

House opened his mouth to say something, but then thought better of it and simply turned his eyes away. He heard Wilson huff in frustration but didn't look up to see what he was doing. Instead, House pushed the blankets aside and set himself to the laborious task of getting up.

At first, it was going more or less okay. He rolled over his left leg and got to his knees, and even though the movement made his leg cramp painfully it wasn't any worse than on some regular days. It started to get a lot worse, though, when he had to briefly put his weight on his right leg in order to get his left foot underneath himself. House gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers and somehow managed to push himself upright, leaning heavily against the wall for support.

Standing there and trying to catch his breath, he couldn't see how he was supposed to make it from the wall over to the bed, let alone the bathroom. Suddenly, he felt a less-than-gentle hand on his elbow.

"You're a fucking _idiot_," Wilson said again as he all but manhandled House to the bed. House felt more than relieved when he felt the firm mattress under himself. He raised his head to look at Wilson as Wilson scooped up the pillows, blankets and the bottle of Vicodin that had fallen out of House's pajama pockets. He dumped the bedding onto the mattress behind House, and House quickly snatched the Vidodin bottle out of the air as Wilson tossed it to him.

"Thanks," House said somewhat breathlessly. Wilson didn't answer, and merely shook his head before he left the room.

House flicked open the pill bottle and swallowed two in rapid succession. Then he let himself fall back onto the bed and closed his eyes.

The pills took unusually long to kick in, but after about fifteen minutes House felt the sharp pain in his leg diminish to a dull throb. He waited another five minutes before he sat up and reached for his cane, using it to lever himself to his feet. Standing was painful, but not as impossible as twenty minutes ago. House grabbed the pill bottle from the nightstand and made his way into the kitchen, where Wilson was seated at the kitchen table, sipping coffee. He didn't look up as House entered. House saw the now-empty package of acetaminophen lying on the tabletop beside Wilson's coffee cup.

He walked over to the counter and picked up the coffee mug, only to realize that it was empty. Wilson had only made coffee for himself. House rolled his eyes and was tempted to make a remark, but then he simply carried the pot to the sink to fill it.

The silence in the room was tense, and as always happened to him in these situations, House grew impatient. He turned on the coffee maker and then walked up to the table and sat down on one of the chairs, glad to be able to take the weight off his leg. "Stop acting as if I killed your mother," he said. "I was trying to help you."

Wilson didn't look up. "Well, don't do that," he said.

House rolled his eyes. "You could still be having that migraine if I hadn't-"

Wilson slammed his hand down on the table and glared at House, his eyes blazing with anger. "You gave me LSD!" he yelled, and House had to muster up all his self-discipline not to wince. "Do you even know what kind of long-term effects that stuff can have?!"

"There are no long-term effects of LSD, except with underlying conditions. Do you have an underlying tendency to schizophrenic psychoses?"

"The fact that you have to ask speaks for itself."

House rolled his eyes. "You should give lessons on how to be intentionally thick and annoying. I'm your medical proxy, I know your history. And I know that the only occurrence of mental illness in your family was your mom's father's Alzheimer's."

"And you think that makes it okay for you to dope me up on acid?" Wilson was angrier than House had ever seen him, and the fact that basically Wilson had every right to be seething didn't really help House's position.

"You wouldn't let me help you!" he said, raising his voice as well. "You'd rather lie there and be miserable all night! I'm not going to apologize for trying to do _something_!"

Wilson's glare was murder. "Yes," he said, his voice oozing sarcasm. "Because you let me help you when you're in pain. You never prefer to be miserable rather than accept help."

House hated it when Wilson did that. Twisted his words. Was right. He pressed his lips together, then grabbed his cane and got up. "Kiss my ass, James Wilson," he said, while trying to keep the pain in his leg from showing on his face. He limped over to the counter and filled a cup with the freshly brewed coffee. Then he took the mug, and without another look at Wilson--who hadn't given a response to House's insult and had gone back to staring morosely into his own coffee mug--he started towards the living room.

Walking didn't even hurt all that much, and that was probably why House's attention slipped for a moment. He set his cane down on the rug just outside the kitchen door, and as he shifted his weight onto it the rubber tip slipped a little.

Usually, he would have easily been able to catch himself. Today, however, as soon as his body weight shifted to his right leg a flash of agony shot up to his brain, and he lost his balance, crashing to the floor and spilling hot coffee all over his hand and forearm.

_"Fuck!"_

House curled in on himself, the stinging pain from his scalded hand and the searing stab in his leg clashing and grating in his brain and spinal nerves. He clenched his teeth and held his breath until the pain relented.

"House! Are you okay?"

Wilson's voice. House opened his eyes to see Wilson in the kitchen doorframe, a concerned and inquiring expression on his face. There wasn't a trace of anger. House couldn't help but smile a little at that.

"I- " He winced as the wet, now cooling cuff of his shirt rubbed over the irritated skin on his arm as he slowly sat up. "I spilled my coffee."

House could see ambiguous emotions battling on Wilson's face, before a well-known resigned-but-sympathetic expression took over and Wilson knelt down beside him. He took House's burned hand in his, carefully pushing the fabric of the shirt aside and running gentle fingers over the angry red skin. Then he shook his head and sighed. "Did I tell you already that you're an idiot?" he asked.

House, who had to make an effort not to wince and pull away at Wilson's touch, smirked a little. "You might have mentioned something."

Wilson got to his feet. "Take off your shirt," he said before he went back into the kitchen.

House carefully began to peel off his shirt, wincing, and heard Wilson putter around in the kitchen, the sound of pots banging together and then the rushing of the tap being turned on. A moment later Wilson returned with a bowl of water, which he put down on the floor beside House. "Put your hand in there," he said.

House put his hand in the water and hissed as the cool liquid made his burned skin tingle. Wilson used some kitchen paper to wipe up the spilled coffee, then went into the bedroom, returning a moment later with one of House's t-shirts. He squatted beside House and gestured with his hand. "Let me see."

House let him take another look at his hand and dab away the moisture with a cloth, and after a few moments, Wilson nodded. "It's not too bad," he said. "Only first degree."

"Gee, thank you, Dr. Wilson," House said, but his tone wasn't unkind, and Wilson only raised an eyebrow and handed him the shirt. House put it on, glad of the layer of fabric protecting him from the slight chill of the air on his bare skin. Wilson reached out to pick up his cane and handed it to him. "You think you can get up?"

House took a moment to gather himself, then quirked his eyebrows. "I can try." He reached out for Wilson's arm, and with the other man's help, got first to his knees and then slowly, awkwardly levered himself to his feet. It was an exhausting and painful procedure, and when he was finally standing upright, he leaned heavily on Wilson, clenching his teeth and breathing hard. Wilson had an arm around his shoulders, supporting him, and for a brief moment House allowed Wilson to carry most of his weight, keeping his head lowered and trying to catch his breath. Then he took a careful, unsteady step. Wilson didn't let go, and together they made their awkward way to the couch.

House collapsed onto the seat, feeling eternally relieved to be able to take his weight off his leg. He rubbed his thigh, hunching his shoulders a little and gritting his teeth. After a while the pain relented a little, and he sat back, reaching into his pocket for a pill and swallowing it dry before he opened his eyes to see Wilson standing before him, offering him a glass of water. House reached out and took it from him. "Thanks," he said, his voice rather hoarse even to his own ears.

Wilson walked around his outstretched legs to the other side of the couch and sat down beside him, switching on the TV. The image of the weather woman filled the screen, and House groaned and held out a demanding hand. Wilson hesitated only for a split second before handing over the remote.

House was about to switch channels when he hesitated and lowered his hand. Wilson turned his head, giving him an inquiring glance, and House looked at him. "I'm sorry, Wilson," he said, and even though hearing himself apologize made him cringe, he knew that he meant it. "I shouldn't have slipped you acid."

Wilson raised his eyebrows and then nodded. "No, you shouldn't have. At least not without telling me. But it's okay."

He turned back to the TV, but House didn't look away, continuing to watch Wilson's profile. After a moment Wilson spoke again, gesturing at the TV. "Are you going to switch channels, or are we going to watch the weather channel all day?"

House turned to the TV as well and hit the zap button until he found an old Star Trek rerun.

"She's dead, Jim," Dr. McCoy said gravely, and looked up from his medical thingamajig that looked suspiciously like a salt shaker.

House settled back into the couch and almost unconsciously shuffled over so his left leg was touching Wilson's right. They watched as the senior crew of the NCC-1701 took the appropriate three seconds to mourn the dead redshirt and then moved on to find a sparring partner for Captain Kirk.

House could feel the over thirty megs of hydrocodone in his system making him drowsy, and he only marginally registered it when Wilson put an arm around his shoulders and drew him in a little closer. After a while he realized he could feel the soft fabric of Wilson's t-shirt under his cheek, but by then his head had already grown too heavy, and he wouldn't have moved away even if he'd really wanted to. Something exploded on the big TV screen, and then his eyes slipped fully closed, leaving him oblivious to anything that was going on around him.

\--------

He was woken by a sharp poke to his shoulder and a voice in his ear. "House!"

He blinked and raised his head to see Wilson, who looked just as drowsy as House felt, squinting at him.

"Phone," Wilson said, his voice a little hoarse as if he'd been sleeping as well.

Only then did House register the shrill ringing of the phone in the background. He groaned and yawned. "Well, pick it up, then," he said. Wilson poked him again.

"Can't," he said. "You're lying on top of me."

House shook his head a little to regain his bearings, and saw that Wilson was right. Wilson was trapped between House and the arm of the couch, and for a moment House wondered how the hell Wilson had been able to fall asleep like that. Just for good measure he rolled his eyes at Wilson anyway before he pushed himself upright and groped for the phone, cutting off Wilson's boring answering machine message in mid-sentence.

"What?" he growled into the receiver.

There was a brief moment of silence at the other end. "House?" a woman's voice asked. House let himself fall back against the backrest.

"Hey, Cuddy," he said, both as a way of greeting and for Wilson's benefit. Wilson had been watching him with raised eyebrows and now nodded and leaned back as well. House heard paper rustling at the other end of the line and imagined Cuddy sitting behind her desk in her office, the receiver wedged between ear and shoulder, sorting through her paperwork and wearing a low-cut shirt as well as a half-worried, half-disapproving frown.

"Hey," she said. "How's things in the house of House?"

House grinned a little. "Oh, just peachy," he said. "Love 'n peace all around."

Cuddy snorted. "Is Wilson okay?" she asked then, her tone so much like that of a matron that House's smirk widened to a broad grin.

"Wilson's just fine," he said, and he could almost hear Cuddy's skeptical frown over the line.

"Let me talk to him," she said. House glanced over at Wilson, who was watching him with a small smile on his lips.

"He's sleeping," House said, raising an eyebrow at Wilson and daring him to say anything. Wilson only grinned, though, and leaned back, turning his eyes to the TV where by now the Nanny Fran and Niles the Butler were having a silent shouting match on muted volume.

House heard Cuddy sigh. "Tell him to call me when he wakes up," she said. "And if he doesn't show up for work tomorrow, I _am_ calling social services to report a case of spousal abuse."

House could tell she was joking, but there was also a certain warning in her voice. He rolled his eyes. "He'll be there," he said, and Cuddy grunted in a somewhat un-ladylike way.

"I hope." She said a short good-bye and then hung up. House dropped the phone into the couch gap and gave Wilson a sideways glance.

"Try not to run into any doors or break any bones in the near future," he said. "Cuddy would have me arrested. She already thinks you're a battered woman."

Wilson snorted in surprise. "She what?"

House only shook his head, and Wilson chuckled, picking up the remote from where it had fallen to the floor and turning up the volume before he handed it to House. "Battered woman," he said. "I like that. I could sue you for compensation."

"Watch it," House growled. "Or I'll beat you with my cane."

Wilson grinned, and together they turned back to the TV. They watched the show for a while, until Wilson made a remark about the actor playing Niles the Butler that was so painfully incorrect that it almost made House cringe. He wasted no time in telling Wilson just how wrong he was, and soon the two of them were engaged in a heated argument about whether or not Daniel Davis had guest starred in one of the Men In Black episodes. When it became obvious that Wilson was right after all, House quickly changed the subject by loudly announcing that he was starving. Wilson gave him a slightly exasperated side-glance but didn't pursue the matter, instead offering to make pancakes.

"If we still have any milk left." Wilson got up from the couch and went into the kitchen, and House could hear him opening the fridge and beginning to putter around, pulling bowls and ingredients out of the cupboards. He turned and contentedly stretched out on the couch, closing his eyes.

He'd almost dozed off again when he felt a knee nudge his foot. "Move over," he heard Wilson say.

He opened his eyes to see Wilson standing beside the couch, carrying a tray with coffee, pancakes and syrup. House sat up, moving out of the way to make some space for Wilson. His stomach growled in anticipation as he stacked his plate with pancakes and poured syrup on them. He then offered the syrup to Wilson, who shook his head and held up a hand.

"No, thanks," he said around a mouthful of pancakes. House rolled his eyes at him.

"They're much better with," he said. Wilson swallowed and grinned.

"I suppose they are. But my revenge won't be half as sweet if I'm too stoned to watch."

House, who had been stuffing his face with pancakes, almost dropped his plate. He stared at Wilson for a moment before he quickly put the plate aside. "You laced the syrup?!" he asked. Wilson was shaking with silent laughter, and House considered whacking him over the head with his cane after all.

Eventually, Wilson caught himself enough to give an understandable answer. "No," he said, still chuckling. "I didn't."

House eyed him suspiciously, and Wilson snorted. "Really, I didn't," he said. "I'm not the one with the secret stash."

"And to think I wasted mine on you," House said, and picked up his plate to continue his meal. He trusted Wilson about as far as he could throw him, but these pancakes were simply too good to let them go to waste.

Still, he couldn't help eying the bookshelf, half expecting it to start dancing any moment. And no matter how concealed his side-glances were, House couldn't shake the feeling that Wilson was noting and watching each single one of them in secret, silent laughter.


End file.
